Brandy, You're a Fine Girl
by Aegismaiden
Summary: Songfic: Brandy - Brandy tends a hunters' bar and loves a Winchester brother who isn't there. I am only through season 3, so I know this is probably noncanon, but the idea stuck.


_There's a port on the western bay_

_And it serves a hundred ships a day_

_Lonely sailors waste the time away_

_And talk about their homes_

"Pass me a round!" A hunter slammed the bar good naturedly. It was a busy night in the saloon, filled to the gills on the cool Arizona night.

Brandy obliged, expertly opening another bottle. She slid it down the bar, overlooking her territory.

For years now, she had looked after the obscure saloon, catering to all kinds of hunters. This was a rough crowd, most far from home, and all haunted in their own right. These men and women had seen things most people would never dream of; ghosts, spirits, demons, villains, and hauntings even they couldn't describe. The bar was a safe haven for them and their troubles. Some came to mourn, others came to interface, but all came for the booze-and Brandy had the best around.

_And there's a girl in this harbor town_

_And she works layin' whiskey down_

_They say "Brandy, fetch another round"_

_She serves them whiskey and wine_

Her real name was all but forgotten. Her father used to be the sole proprietor of the joint while her mother hunted her specialty, vampires. Brandi grew up in the world of monsters. Instead of scaring her, the reality hardened her, strengthened her, and taught her that a sense of humor was critical. Then one day, her mother didn't return. Her poor father, inexperienced as he was, went after the responsible creature. He never returned. Brandy was left with the choice: avenge or let go. She chose the latter, staying with the old bar and the people it helped. It hadn't been an easy decision, but she figured she could do a lot more good alive than dead. She had been fifteen.

At that time, the patrons were friends of her late father. They took it upon themselves to look after her. As the years passed, a younger crop came through, admirers of the booze-and the bartender.

_The sailors say "Brandy, you're a fine girl"_

_"What a good wife you would be"_

_"Yeah your eyes could steal a sailor from the sea"_

There was no denying her beauty. Her cinnamon skin, a nod to her ethnic mother, contrasted her cerulean eyes, framed by full, curly black hair. She was fit, partly from working on her feet, and partly from the rigorous routine she put her body though daily. Just because she wasn't an active hunter didn't mean she wasn't trained for it. After all, she lived alone in remote Montana, and a bar full of hunters had been bait for more than one adventure. She always dressed simply, clad in slim jeans, a threadbare plaid shirt, and motorcycle boots. There was no need for fuss around this lot of patrons. She might braid her hair or swipe some mascara through her lashes, but she didn't see any need.

_Brandy wears a braided chain_

_Made of finest silver from the North of Spain_

_A locket that bears the name_

_Of the man that Brandy loves_

Her only adornment was the silver chain around her neck. Attached to the delicate string hung an oval locket, emblazoned with a crucifix. The item itself was steeped in hunter lore. Melted from a chalice discarded from a Spanish chapel and dipped in holy water, no vampire, werewolf, or demon would dare touch it-or posses the body wearing it. Though many patrons had tried to shower her with gifts, she refused them all-save this one. His name was hidden in the locket, a vault against all the evils they faced daily.

_Dean._

_He came on a summer's day_

_Bringin' gifts from far away_

_But he made it clear he couldn't stay_

_No harbor was his home_

Dean and his brother, Sam, had appeared one sweltering summer morning, dust storm on their heels. Of course, in the hunters' world, it was no ordinary whirlwind, but a vengeful spirit out for revenge on its murder. The boys rolled up in their Impala on the wings of the storm, slamming the saloon doors behind them as the sand hit the walls.

"Hi, everyone!" Dean grinned cheekily. "Does anyone have any salt?"

Of course, in a place like this, every occupant pulled out a bag of the stuff in under a second. Brandy was the quickest, tossing over a large tin of rock salt that he caught with lightening reflexes. Sam tossed a worn shovel into the fireplace. Dean joined him with the salt.

"Got a light?"

Brandy obliged, and the brothers set the offending object ablaze. As the blade melted, the winds subsided, eventually fading into silence.

"So," Dean smiled as he turned to the bar. "How about a round for the house?"

News of the attack on the saloon spread like wildfire in the hunting community; the bar was packed by ten. Everyone was concerned for Brandy's wellbeing, but she convinced them everything was under control. Dean had difficulty with everyone putting her above him—after all, he had saved the day—but she handled it with grace, making sure to tell everyone the Winchester's role in the little adventure. So when he approached the bar, he had the charm turned up to maximum.

"What can I get for you?" she asked automatically without looking up from the glass she was cleaning.

"A drink and your phone number." His southern accent massaged every word.

She nearly dropped the glass, jerking her head up to face him. His full lips and oh-so-symmetrical face distracted her at first, but she gained her wits. "You know what? I'll race you for it."

"Race you?" He raised an eyebrow. _Damn that gorgeous eyebrow._

"Whiskey shots. First through ten wins."

Dean was never one to shy away from a challenge, especially when the opponent was a beautiful woman. "You're on."

Smiling slyly, she lined the drinks up. Curiosity spread through the bar, and soon they were surrounded.

"Dean," Sam warned, but his brother waved him off.

"Boy, you are about to get beat," miscellaneous patrons cautioned him as Brandy poured the whiskey.

Sam elected to referee, and they were off. The warnings went unheeded as he ran through the shots at full speed. Brandi was quicker, even more used to the liquor than her opponent.

"OHHH!" their spectators yelled collectively as Brandy slammed down the final shot.

Dean coughed, smiling. "Well played, darling, well played."

_The sailor said, "Brandy, you're a fine girl_

_"What a good wife you would be_

_"But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea."_

That was the first of many visits to the saloon by the Winchesters. The flirtation between Brandy and Dean escalated with each trip. Each time, they would race for the phone number. Each time, Brandy won.

Everything changed the day the demon came to town. She didn't even remember the possession, or what she did, but she remembered being utterly terrified. The world was black until she opened her eyes to find herself in Dean Winchester's arms. His eyes went from anxiety to relief as she blinked softly. The impulse to kiss him was overpowering. She would later claim she was dazed from the possession, but she lifted her lips to his. His response was overpowering. She had heard he was good, but _man_. His lips must have been possessed by an angel.

_"Finally,"_ he breathed when they broke apart.

That night found Dean in Brandy's bed. His lips were clouds, and the way their bodies moved was like heaven on earth. She had never dreamt it would be like that. Sure, she had gotten her fair share, trading loneliness for loneliness with the more handsome hunters, but this—

"_DEAN!"_ his name ripped past her throat, and she collapsed into his arms. They separated, breathing heavily, skin covered in a thin coat of sweat.

Perfection.

Dean watched her sleep. He'd been through this before; fall in love with stay-at-home girl, then watch her heart break—or his. It was too much to bear. Leaving was inevitable; there were no what-ifs. He caught little sleep, mulling over his options. Sunlight stretched across the bed, waking Brandy.

He spent the whole night with her. She heard this was unlike him, and grinned, proud of herself upon the sight of his body beside hers. She felt him sit up; he pulled her with him.

"Look," he started, "You are wonderful, but you need to know that I can't stay. I really want to, but I have a responsibility to my brother and our friends that we'd—"

She cut him off, a serene smile on her face. "You don't need to explain. My parents had a happy relationship apart—and together. My mom was a hunter, my dad owned the joint, but they worked as a couple. I'm not saying that we're a couple, or even that you have to come back to me, but I'm here, if ever you need me."

He kissed her lips, pulling her on top of him. "In that case—want to go again?"

_Yeah, Brandy used to watch his eyes_

_When he told his sailor stories_

_She could feel the ocean foam rise_

_She saw its raging glory_

_But he had always told the truth, lord, he was an honest man_

_And Brandy does her best to understand_

When Brandy saw him again, there was no question in his eyes; she still held his heart. He rushed to meet her, spinning her around the room. This attracted more than one disapproving glance from the other patrons, but one glance at Brandy's beaming visage and they let the lovers be.

All she wanted was to have him right there on the floor, but she took only one kiss before getting back to work. He chose a seat at the bar. The Winchester name was infamous in the hunting community; before long, someone asked him for a story.

No one told tales of the hunt like Dean Winchester. Sam sat by him, researching new cases, but chimed in from time to time to get the facts right. Dean's handsome face contorted; fear, pain, and victory were easily read in his expressions. His southern drawl only added to the charisma as he waved his hands, nodded his head, and even kicked his legs.

Brandy was captivated whenever he told these stories; it took all of her control to continue serving patrons. She washed the glasses, eyes rapt on his face. Occasionally, he would catch her eye and wink; she would blush and return to her work.

When the crowd dissipated around two AM, Dean hopped the bar and sauntered up to her. Hands on her hips, he twisted her around, planting a scorching kiss on her lips.

"Mmm," she moaned against him. "That never gets old."

"I brought you something," he murmured, forehead to forehead.

Brandy leaned against the bar as he fumbled in his pocket. He opened his fist, revealing a sparkling necklace.

"It's made of Spanish silver and dipped in holy water," he explained softly. "You won't be possessed anytime soon."

He reached around her neck to clasp it, straightening it on her chest. "It's beautiful."

"It'll protect you whenever I'm away."

She kissed him hard, their attraction crackling like electricity. "Thank you."

"You know," he grinned into her lips, "I never got your phone number."

_At night when the bars close down_

_Brandy walks through a silent town_

_And loves a man who's not around_

She locked the bar at four AM before walking back to the small building she called home. Rubbing the locket, she looked to the stars, wondering if he was looking at the same stars and thinking of her. It was foolish to think such a schoolgirl idea, but months without him left her desperate for his touch.

Closing her eyes, she imagined him standing in front of her. He grinned crookedly, as he always did, eyes soft.

"I miss you," she whispered.

If she strained her ears, she could imagine him replying.

_She hears him say " Brandy, you're a fine girl" _

_"What a good wife you would be"_

_"But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea"_


End file.
